“Stop there,” Jessie said at one point. It was their third viewing. She pointed toward a magazine, fleetingly glimpsed at a cluttered table where Novak was interviewed after the ceremony. She ran to the kitchen and retrieved Janson’s copy of The Economist, purchased at the newsstand earlier that day.

“Same issue,” she said.

The very same image appeared on the cover, which was dated to expire the following Monday. It was not an old tape that had been broadcast. It was filmed, had to have been filmed, after the catastrophe in Anura.

Yet if Peter Novak was alive, who had died in Anura?

And if Peter Novak was dead, who were they were watching?

Janson felt his head starting to swim.

It was madness!

What had they seen? A twin? An impostor?

Had Novak been murdered and … replaced with a double? It was diabolical, almost beyond imagining. Who could do such a thing?

Who else knew? He reached for his cell phone, trying Novak’s staffers both in New York and in Amsterdam. An urgent message for Peter Novak. Having to do with matters involving his personal security.

He used every code-red word he knew—to no avail, yet again. The response was the familiar one: bored, phlegmatic, unalarmed. A message would be conveyed; no promises of whether it would be returned. No information would be divulged as to Mr. Novak’s whereabouts. Márta Lang—if that was even her real name—remained equally elusive.

A quarter of an hour later, Janson found himself clutching his head, trying to order his whirling thoughts. What had happened to Peter Novak? What was happening to Janson himself? When he looked up, he saw Jessie Kincaid staring back at him with wounded eyes.

“I ask only one thing of you,” she said, “and I know it’s a biggie, but here it is: do not lie to me. I’ve heard too many lies, hell, I’ve told too many lies, as it is. As for what happened in Anura, I got your word for it, nobody else’s. Tell me this, what I am supposed to believe?” Her eyes were moist, and she was blinking hard. “Who am I supposed to believe?”

“I know what I saw,” Janson said softly.

“That makes two of us.” She jerked her head at the TV screen.

“What are you saying? That you don’t believe me?”

“I want to believe you.” She took a deep breath. “I want to believe somebody.”

Janson was silent for a long moment. “Fine,” he said. “I don’t blame you. Listen, I’ll call for a cab, he’ll ferry you down to the Cons Op station in Milan, and you can report back in. Trust me, a crack shot like you, they’ll be relieved to have you back. And I’ll be long gone by the time you get the cleanup crew here.”

“Hold it,” she said. “Slow down.”